


from russia with love

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Guilt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things don't always end up the way you want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from russia with love

With James undercover in Egypt and not in need of much help, Q gets to take over after Alec's—useless, in Q's opinion—neophyte of a handler, who couldn't keep up with the long nights and early mornings and quit not even a month after he'd started. According to Q, it's just good riddance.

"Damn right it was," Alec agrees as he waits for Q's next move.

They've spent most of the afternoon talking and exchanging banter over the comms—with all the preparations already made and the meeting with their SVR informant still a couple of hours away, there's not much else for Alec to do but shuffle around his hotel room and demand that Q plays Words with Friends with him to pass the time.

Q puts down _jukebox_ and grins a little for himself.

"That's just fuckin' rude," Alec groans as Q's score increases with 77 points. "I should get like, a 50-point handicap, since I'm playing against a genius."

"Flatter will get you absolutely nowhere," Q quips dryly. "Come on, it's your turn."

"Next time, we're playing this in Russian," Alec suggests. "See how confident you'll be then."

"Agent 007 would back me up," Q reminds him. It's a little strange, calling James that when he's talking to Alec, but over the comms, it's codenames or nothing—at least until something blows up and he loses 007 in a cloud of smoke, at which point it's James until his heartbeat settles again. So far, no one's commented on it, and even if they did, it probably wouldn't make much of a difference. On a mission, he's 007, in MI6, he's Bond, but with Q, he'll always be James.

"Agent 007 is biased and would not be allowed to compete," Alec says, tone flat in a way that tells Q he's trying to figure out his next move. Then, a pause, and the dull sound of what Q guesses is a tablet being slammed against a mattress. "What the hell am I supposed to do with all these vowels?"

Q picks up his teacup and takes a sip. "Eulogy," he suggests around the rim.

"No, that's—oh, fuck you." Some distant tapping, and then a ping on Q's tablet. **_thebear_** _played **eulogy** for **20** points._ "I hate this game," Alec mutters.

"You're welcome," Q tells him. "And I promise we'll play it in Russian next time. If you and 007 team up your combined IQ might even surpass mine."

"Haha," Alec mock-laughs. "You're a little shit, you know that, right?"

"You tell me every day," Q reminds him sweetly.

"Good," Alec says. "Good."

* * *

Things don't always end up the way you want them to. Q knows this. James knows this. It’s a truth that stands for every single person working within these walls. Everyone knows—so why doesn’t it help?

Q listens to Alec’s last breaths, hears the thick, rattling noises, and it’s all he can do not to break down, right then and there.

"I’ll be fine," Alec says, and Q has never felt more helpless—he's in London, safe and sound within the walls of MI6, while Alec lies on a concrete floor somewhere in downtown Novogorod, bleeding and breathing and talking to Q, comforting him, like it's not him who's dying. Like it wasn’t Q who was supposed to keep him safe. Keep him _alive_.

"ETA on evac is ten minutes," Q says, and barely manages to keep the tremors out of his voice.

"Good," Alec says. He sounds so tired.

Q falls silent. Thinks. He has to say it, doesn't he? If he doesn't, how will he live with himself? "I'm—"

"No," Alec interrupts him. "Don't—don't do that. Don't let that be it. I know, and it's okay, but don't let that be the last thing." Heavy breathing—he shouldn't be talking, but when has Alec ever done the things he should? He's a field agent, after all. "Please."

Q draws a deep breath and does not crumble under what feels like the weight of the world on his shoulders. The weight of the world, the weight of a life—it feels very much like the same thing, right now.

"Okay," he says, because he is not going to be the one to deny a dying man his last wish.

_Oh, God._

Another couple of breaths, drawn deep, down below his chest. "Remember that time you called me because James got stuck in a vent and he refused to even try to get out unless you promised you'd make me delete the CCTV footage?"

Alec laughs—wet and crackling, it's a terrible noise, and it sounds painful, yet absolutely beautiful. "I sprained two ribs when he fell down on me as I tried to pull him out. Hurt like a bitch."

"I might find his ability to accidentally injure people impressive if I wasn't constantly in the danger zone," Q says.

"Well, all I’m saying is that you should be glad that you get to hole up in Q-Branch," Alec says.

"Trust me, I am."

Silence falls again—Alec's breathing notwithstanding. When Alec speaks, it's in a quiet voice. "You'll take care of him, right?"

Q breathes in, shaky. "Of course," he says, because what else is there for him to do? Besides, he doesn't think he can stop now.

"If he heard me say that, he'd point out that he's considered one of the most dangerous men in the world and that he's more than capable to fend for himself," Alec says. "And towards others, he is. But towards himself... it's not that easy."

"I know," Q mumbles, because he does—all too well. "I'll do my best."

"Which is the best there is," Alec says. Another pause, and then, "I'm glad he has you."

Q can feel his eyes starting to water. "I'm glad I have him, too."

He cannot see it, but Q knows Alec is smiling. "And I'm glad to have had you both," he says.

Had. _Had_. "That sounds filthy," Q says, and there are tears on his cheeks now, but he cannot make himself wipe them away—if he had to make a conscious decision to breathe, he'd be suffocating.

Alec huffs a laugh, but it quickly turns into a cough, and Q feels sick. "My one regret, then."

"Incorrigible bastard," Q says, and Alec must hear it, must know that he’s crying, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot stop.

"Don't pretend you haven't thought about it," Alec chides. "We all have."

"We _all_ have?" Q echoes. "How many deviants _are_ there in this building? Actually, don’t answer that.”

"All I’m saying is that you're lucky you've got James, or you'd have half the office trailing after you like lovesick puppies. Takes an English bulldog to scare 'em off."

_You're lucky you've got James._ "I am," Q agrees.

Alec is smiling again. Q still can't see it, but he knows. "And he's lucky to have you."

"I do hope he feels that way," Q says.

"He does," Alec promises, and then, but with just the slightest hint of mischief, "Trust me, he does."

"Do the two of you ever do anything besides drink?” Q wonders out loud. "Or do you just use your Russian sensibilities to figure these things out?"

"If by Russian sensibilities you mean obscene amounts of Stolichnaya, then yes," Alec says. “No specific nationality required. You should give it a go yourself, because while his alcohol tolerance is second only to mine, when it comes to you, he’s hardly the stone-hearted bastard he likes to think he is.”

Q sighs. "Well, you say that, but sometimes, it's like talking to a wall."

"I know," Alec says, because he does. "But your job is to move through walls as if they were never even there. If anyone can get through to him, it's you."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Alec says, and he sounds so sure that Q can't do much else but trust him.

"Okay," Q says. "I'll remember that."

"Please do."

* * *

Q spends the entire ride from Vauxhall Gardens in a state of disorder; on one hand, he wants James to be there when he opens the door, wants him to smile and kiss him hello, because he feels, almost to a point of desperation, that he needs to be the one to do this. He tries to imagine someone else—Eve or Mallory, most likely—and while he's sure that both of them could do it, that's not really what all of this is about. This is about James, and whom he can listen to, rather than who speaks to him. And for a reason Q has yet to come to terms with, or even understand, James listens to him.

There's another part of him, though, a sliver of anxiety at the back of his head that whispers ugliness in his ear about guilt and blame and how cold Novogorod is in late November. This part of him wants to open the door to his flat and find it empty, wants the lights to be off and the couch to not bear a single trace of body heat or expensive aftershave.

But none of this matters, because right now, what matters is not what he wants, but what James needs, what he _deserves_. And he deserves to hear this from someone he trusts, someone who he can seek comfort from, and, more importantly, someone who will give it to him—and Q swears on his life that he will give everything he has to offer, will happily be empty and hollow if it means James won't be.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, there's not much Q can do to keep himself from looking up, to see if the lights are on. When he sees that they are, he takes a deep breath, says thank you to the driver, and steps out of the car.

Never has the walk up to his flat felt as long as it does now, nor has the stairwell ever been so quiet. Every step feels like a hundred, and by the time Q reaches the door, he feels exhausted. When he disables the security system, it takes longer than it usually does—the codes won't come to him at the same speed, and he has to redo the retinal scan twice because he blinks. Briefly, he wonders if his subconscious is stalling, but then the lock clicks, and the thought disappears like it was never there at all.

He opens the door slowly, careful not to make any noise, and when he glances down the hall and into the living room, he breathes a sigh of relief. James is sleeping on his couch, curled up but still not quite fitting—a leg is nearly falling off the edge, and one of his feet is hanging off the armrest. He's wearing sweats and an old Royal Navy hoodie—he's just come back from a run, then, which means that it's highly unlikely that anyone's managed to get a hold of him and tell him the news. Q isn't sure if that's a relief or not, but decides not to think about it, and instead directs his focus towards toeing off his shoes and hanging up his parka.

As he moves through the flat, he tries to be as quiet as possible, even though he knows that his effort will most likely be in vain. James is a light sleeper, and this is confirmed when Q turns on the kettle—it's just a tiny click in the far corner of the kitchen, but Q can soon hear the tell-tale creaking of someone moving on his ancient couch.

With a deep breath, Q leaves the kettle to boil and walks into the living room.

When James sees him, he blinks a couple of times at first, before a slow smile starts to spread across his lips, filling Q's chest with warmth—but it hurts, too. It hurts more than he could ever imagine.

"Hey," James says, and his voice sounds just like it does in the mornings, when he drags Q across the sheets to trap him in his arms and make him tremble as James presses down on bruises left there by himself only hours ago. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I was very quiet," Q tells him, and he knows his smile is nothing compared to what it usually is when he looks at James, but for now, it's all he can manage. He walks over to the couch and drops down into the space James makes for him. It's warm. "I work for the MI6, you know."

James plays along, because he's lovely like that. "Really?" he says, and draws Q closer with an arm over his shoulders. "Does that make you a spy, then?"

Q can feel himself practically melting into James' side, and he revels in it as much as he can, unsure of when he'll get to do it again. "If it does, I couldn't tell you, because if I were, it'd be a secret."

James huffs out a laugh and presses a kiss to the top of Q's head. "I think you just did tell me," he says. "You're really not a very good spy."

Turning his head, Q buries his face in James' neck. He smells a bit sweaty, but he doesn't really mind. "I don't need to be," he mumbles against the salty skin. "Not when you're such a good one."

James hums, and brushes his fingers over Q's jaw. "Come here," he mumbles, and when they kiss, Q knows it means thank you.

"You're home early," James comments once they settle again, his arm around Q's shoulders and Q's head resting on his chest. There is absolutely nothing in his voice that speaks of suspicion, yet Q feels it, like a cold gust of wind over his skin. He brings a hand up to play with the hood strings on James' sweatshirt. When he tries to speak, nothing comes out.

"Q?" James sounds worried, and Q hates himself—hates that he doesn't know what to say, hates that even if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to get it out. "Is everything alright, love?"

It's two letters and one syllable, yet the word gets stuck in Q's throat and leaves him with the feeling of not being able to breathe.

"Q?" James asks again, and Q should be able to keep it together, but there are tears on his cheeks and more on their way. When James shifts around so he can look at him properly, Q can't see his face. "Darling, what's happened?"

As soon as he feels the first tendrils of panic starting to wrap around him, Q starts counting—inhale, _two, three, four_ ; hold, _two, three, four_ ; exhale, _two, three, four_ ; hold, _two, three, four_. A few repetitions, and the tears have cleared enough for him to see the worry in James' eyes—a few more, and he can breathe properly again.

"I'm so sorry," he says, because he only manages to tell James one thing, it has to be that. James has to know that he's sorry.

"For what?" James asks, worry lines deep between his eyes. He wraps the hem of his sweater sleeve around his fingers and uses it to wipe Q's cheeks dry. "You're not hurt, are you? Please—"

"It's not me," Q replies quickly. "I'm fine."

"Love, you're crying—"

"Alec is dead."

James stops, and Q does, too. He wishes he could say that time freezes—but it doesn't, does it? If it did, Q doesn't think he'd sit here, eyes red and nose running, because to him, the worst part about losing someone is knowing you'll have to keep living without them. The world won't stop spinning just because you feel like it has collapsed beneath your feet.

A distant part of Q's mind remembers that, after Vesper, James practically fell off the face of the Earth, and when he finally returned, it was only to do the same thing a second time over. He hopes that James will find he has something to stay for, this time.

"I’m sorry," Q says again. He doesn’t know what else to say. If there even is anything else to say. He doubts it.

James doesn’t speak. Q doesn’t expect him to. To be quite honest, he doesn’t really know what his expectations are—he wasn’t there after Vesper, but from what Eve and Alec and James’ file told him, he can’t really say he was very hopeful. Now, though, the lack of hope has turned into an abundance of dread, yet he can’t get away from the fact that Q trusts James with his life—that’s not even a question. The question is whether or not he trusts James with James’ own life.

James doesn't speak, but he pulls Q closer—wraps his arms around him and holds him, tight, barely even letting him breathe, but Q doesn't mind. In fact, he revels in the pressure, revels in the feeling of a warm body against his, grounding him, keeping him from floating away. Because it feels like he will, sometimes. When things become too much, when he cannot hear his thoughts over the white noise in his head—that's when he wants to float away, wants to escape from the world from a while, yet he needs to be tethered, needs to be held down. He wants to float away, but he doesn't want to want it.

Today, he doesn't want to float away. Today, he couldn't, even if he wanted to, because there is a weight on his shoulders that pushes down—crushes him, it feels like. A life is heavy, he thinks, and wonders how James can even stand up. Wonders if this will be the weight that finally takes him down. If it turns out to be, Q doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself. There is a sense of guilt that clings to the loss of a life, sure, but even worse is the guilt that clings to those still alive. He can't ask the dead for forgiveness, but from the living, he can try. James will never give it to him—not because he doesn't want to (Q is slowly starting to realize that there are not a lot of things that James would ever refuse him), but rather because he wouldn't think him to need it. Would never agree that Q has something to apologize for.

Distantly, Q longs for the day he can feel the same. In the present, he doubts he ever will.

He doesn't know how long they spend like that, entwined around each other on the couch. Outside the window, the sun sets over London. If it never were to rise again, Q thinks he would only find it fair.

When they move from the couch, it's only so they can go lie down in bed—on top of the covers, both of them still in their clothes. James holds him here, too. He still hasn't showered, but Q still doesn't mind.

Neither of them fall asleep until it's closer to morning than midnight, and even then, it's only for a short while—they wake up again when the sun rises.

Q gets up and makes a cup of tea for himself, which he drinks leaning against the kitchen counter. When he finishes it, he makes another, as well as a cup of coffee for James, and brings both back to the bedroom. He sets them down on the nightstand and climbs back into bed, but before he can grab them again, James takes his face in his hand and kisses him, hard and bruising and desperate.

It's a terrible kiss, and the best Q's ever had. The worst, too, if he thinks about it—but he doesn't. With James' hands like a vice around his jaw, it's hard to think about anything but the way James holds him, the way he presses their lips together, as if he's afraid he'll never get to do it again. As if, were this their last kiss, he would never let it end.

Q feels dazed, at first, but it doesn't take long before he's pushing back; into the kiss, into the fingers curling around the back of his neck, into a body that can barely be separated from his own. Under his skin, there are bruises waiting to rise to the surface; little seeds of blood, waiting to bloom across his skin in reds and blues and purples.

When they part, it's with straining lungs and sore lips, heavy hearts and drooping eyelids. James drinks his coffee slowly—Q has brewed it strong, just the way he likes it, but even then, it's far from enough to keep him awake, and soon enough, he's asleep again.

Not even when M calls and Q's phone starts blaring does he wake up, and if it wasn't for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the sound of his breathing, Q would think he was with Alec.

Mallory tells him that they can take as many days off as they want, which isn't entirely true—there is a protocol for these things, of course, but even then, there is only one Quartermaster, just as there is only one James Bond. Q wouldn't go so far as to call them irreplaceable—nothing and no one within the agency is—but as in any hierarchy, some have to be at the top. They are needed, is the point, and while England surely can manage on her own without them, she'll be considerably worse off.

Never before has Q hated his own importance as much as he does now.

Not long after he hangs up with Mallory, James starts to shift beneath the covers, turning over to face Q.

"Who was that?" he asks, eyes barely open and voice sounding just as unused as it is.

"Mallory," Q says as he slides down to join James between the sheets. He still can't call him M. "Said we could take as long as we want off from work."

James' huff is barely more than a heavy breath. "Two weeks, then."

"Yeah." Q moves over to fit himself along James’ side, pressed tight against his chest. He falls asleep to the sound of James’ heartbeat.

* * *

The Kübler-Ross model doesn't really apply within their field of work—people die too soon and too often for anyone to find the time to pass through the five stages of grief every time it happens. Life must go on, and Q understands that, but it's easier said than done—especially now, when he's not alone. Now, he sees the toll it takes—sees countless deaths in the shadows beneath James' eyes, sees pools of blood and bullet casings in the slump of his shoulders. He sees grief dressed up, sees grief wearing bespoke suits and driving expensive cars, sees grief with a martini in one hand and a gun in the other. It's nicer on the eyes than the five stages, but he doesn't doubt for a second that it hurts just as bad.

Late one night, Q watches James' sleeping face and wonders what he'd be doing if he wasn't here, if the MI6 never hired him, if he was still hacking totalitarian governments from within the walls of his bedroom. If he weren’t here, what would James be doing? Who would he fall asleep beside, if anyone at all? Would he drink only until he forgets that his best friend is dead, or would he keep going until he passes out? Would he get Stoli to remember, or Jim Beam to forget?

There's a newly opened bottle of Johnnie Walker on the coffee table in the living room, and an empty glass on James' nightstand.

* * *

"I've known him since I was twenty-two," James tells him. His hands are warm where they close around Q's cold fingers. "We met at Dartmouth."

Q frowns. "I always assumed you met through MI6."

"Most people do," James mumbles.

"And you never bothered to correct them?"

"No one ever asked."

Q hums, rubbing his cheek against James' chest.

"There was this other cadet," James goes on. "William. A complete and utter bastard. Liked pick on those who were different."

Q sighs and closes his eyes. "I think I know where this is going."

"You can barely hear his accent anymore," James says. Q doesn't point out that he's speaking in the wrong tense. "And it wasn't even heavy back then, either, but it came through enough for William to disprove, and to take matters into his own hands."

"Quite literally, I assume."

James hums in affirmation. "I broke a couple of his ribs, but not before he managed to break my nose. When the Captain called us to his office, I bled all over his expensive Persian carpet."

"And Alec?"

"Black eye."

"Nothing more?"

Even in the darkness, Q can see James' smile. "Nothing more."


End file.
